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She stood with him beneath the iron-and-glass dome of the Hawthorn Museum and Botanical Conservatory, watching a hundred voices and a thousand footsteps bring the new wing to life. The gallery hummed with scholars, society, and the odd smattering of wide-eyed children darting among the marble cases.

Everywhere, people pointed and peered at fossils, pored over expedition sketches, and tilted their heads to puzzle out the Latin plaques. But the true spectacle was above: immense ferns, star-shaped lilies, and riotous tropical vines slithered through the trellises, their blooms exploding against the gray winter sky.

It was chaos, and it was beautiful.

Julian leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "He would have found the lack of labeling intolerable."

"He would have labeled the guests themselves, if given the chance," Adelaide replied.

A thread of laughter—Julian's—warmed her neck. "Yes. 'Specimen: Viscountess Ashby. Native range: County Kent. Known for spectacular hats and acidic wit.'"

"And 'Specimen: Mr. Lucien Ashbourne. Dangerous if startled. Requires constant feeding.'"

Julian grinned, eyes sharp on her cousins at the refreshment table. Lucian had already seized a sugared bun and was quietly demolishing it while Elowen attempted to distract him with talk of orchids. Cassian and Verity drifted in their wake, glassware in hand, while little Octavia—now six inches taller and twice as fierce as last Season—scanned the crowd as though hoping to spot a comet through the glass.

Adelaide's gaze followed the arch of the dome, then landed on Lady Helena, resplendent in a claret dress with a new expression of peace. She was holding court in a sunbeam near the entrance, a flock of museum trustees and naturalists vying for her attention. If Helena's return to Ravensmere had surprised London, her instant embrace of the new conservatory had shocked them into delighted submission. Helena's laugh rang out over the clatter of boots and reticules.

Adelaide squeezed Julian's hand, still amazed by how easily hers fit in his.

"You hate crowds," she said. "Are you not regretting this already?"

He shook his head. "Not when I am with you. And not when the cause is so worthy."

She gave him a look. "You mean, your collection."

"I mean," Julian said, "a lifetime's purpose come to flower. Or have you forgotten whose handwriting fills half the new exhibit labels?"

She hadn't. She never would. Her penmanship, so carefully drilled in Aunt Beatrice's parlor, now marched proudly across the display placards: Expedition Plant Collection, South America—Cataloged by Adelaide, Duchess of Ravensmere.

"I see you are becoming sentimental," she teased. "Shall I fetch the smelling salts?"

He smirked. "You may, but bring a bottle for yourself. There is something I wish to show you."

Adelaide tilted her head, suspicious. "A surprise? In public?"

"Nothing improper," Julian promised. "Merely a walk among the vines."

She laughed, then allowed him to lead her off the main aisle and through a shaded hallway lined with blooming trumpet flowers. The sound of the party faded, replaced by the steady thrum of the heating pipes and the drip of condensation on tile.

They walked for a minute in silence, or what passed for silence with Julian—his steps so quiet and his focus so intent she almost wished to break the spell.

"You're fidgeting," she accused.

He looked caught. "I am not."

"You are. Your left eyebrow climbs each time you intend to say something momentous."

Julian stopped, and the shadow of a palm sliced across his face, softening the lines that had once seemed so unyielding. He turned to her with sudden gravity.

"I have been thinking," he began.

"Always dangerous," she agreed, folding her arms.

He ignored her. "We have not had a true honeymoon."

"We have not had time," she replied, smile warming.

Julian pressed on. "The trustees expect us in Vienna this spring to attend the Naturalist's Congress. But I propose we begin sooner, and make an adventure of it. Travel as man and wife, not as museum exhibit and her caretaker. No lectures, no grand galas. Only trains and rivers and an endless horizon."